The Morning After [Max+Skipp/Open]

[Tirael]

The sun rose, slow and sleepy, gently casting its light on Mossflower. The new light deepened the pink of Redwall's ancient sandstone bulk, peacefully bringing the abbey into the morning after the turmoil of the night. The morning light didn't shine directly into the windows of the building's southern rooms; therefore, it was not until a while after dawn that it grew bright enough to force a young otter's eyes open.

"Unnh..." Tirael groaned as he slowly sat up. He felt exhausted; it had taken him a long time to fall asleep, what with Sleet and Redin swirling around in his mind. He was almost convinced it was a dream; it had been so surreal, having them in the abbey. But, despite how strange it had been, it was still real, and that meant the healer had a ferret to check on. Getting out of bed, he grabbed his tunic and shuffled toward the door.

Tentatively, he opened it and peered down the hall. "Uh...morning," he called to Redin. Has he been out there all night? he thought to himself, wondering how the weasel could seem so unfazed by the odd circumstances. "How are you...uh, both of you?"

[Maxodis]

Enclosed within the sandstone walls of the building and focused on bringing his mind to a meditative state, Redin Outmir quickly lost track of the time. Remaining indoors was a concept that, while not unfamiliar to the weasel, was one he wasn't quite at ease with. Having lived almost the entirety of his life outdoors, sleeping beneath the sheltering limbs of ancient trees, he found the experience somehow subtly unsettling. The sounds of the waking day came dimly to his scarred ears, muted by distance as well as stone. The hallway remained dark, despite the sun that he almost instinctively knew must be rising. He had blown out the fat candle on the wall across from him on a rather foreign impulse that he paid no heed to, and he found that no light would find its way into the darkened hallway until well into the morning.

His chest rose and fell as he took deep, slow breaths, his gaze fixed on a point on the wall directly across from his seat. Barring the repetition of that subtle motion, the burly weasel could have passed for a guardian statue. He sat with his back straightened in the chair, his arms crossed over his chest, the solemn expression on his face completing the image of relaxed strength. For all appearances, he looked as if he hadn't budged since taking up the position the night previous.

He had risen several times from his silent guard, quietly entering the room to check upon its sleeping inhabitant. At first his intentions were to see if she had wakened, or even budged in her deep slumber. Finding that she hadn't, Redin judged that it was probably advisable that she was made more comfortable while her consciousness was away from the world. He first set to arrange her in a more natural sleeping position when he discovered that she was completely damp, at least the front of her. It explained why he hadn't noticed while he was carrying her, however peculiar it was for the ferret to be soaked on the front of her body and dry on her back. He moved her to the second bed and removed her clothing, wringing it out and leaving it on a small table in the room to dry. He then stripped the sheets from her previous bed that had become slightly damp and used them as an improvised towel to better dry her. As he did so(With the mindset of a creature who is working at a task that they neither like nor care for), he checked her body for any additional injuries and found none. Pulling the dry sheets up to her neck and tucking them in securely, the weasel wondered again what exactly had happened to his assassin friend.

Repeated checks on her condition proved to be fruitless, although he did uncover a small basin of water and an aged pillow cover. The bandage on his arm(Hastily done, considering the conditions surrounding it), was all but falling apart, the clay-like mud that he had resorted to using as a sealant having long since dried and split. The cracks in the mud were stained black with his blood, a grim assurance that his condition hadn't changed. He tore long strips from the cover, using half of it to clean the mud from his fur and the wound itself, a four-inch gash that bled steadily through its stitches, the seam of the wound an angry pink. He wrapped his arm with the remaining strips tightly, adding another strip higher on his bicep and wound tighter, causing that arm to tingle dimly, but slowing the flow of blood to a more manageable level.

The rest of his silent vigil was spent meditating. He focused on his breathing, forcibly managing his thoughts much in the same fashion as he managed pain. It was difficult to keep a conscious effort to it after having let the demon in his mind have its free will, the entity that he regarded as the 'Other'. Redin had only become truly aware of it in the past month or so, although he knew it had been with him his entire life. His awareness, although definitive, lacked much clarity. It was near impossible to tell where he began and the other ended. It was no time to contemplate such things, lest he finally tire of the exercise and let the insanity tugging at his consciousness rage freely. This was no place to lose control. He'd had a great amount of success, although there wasn't much to be said about it: Its difficult to be violent when there is no one to be violent to. Regardless, the weasel was certain that maintaining his sanity was possible without Sleet... at least, for a time.

His ear twitched as the sound of a door whispered to him, bringing the weasel out of his thoughts. Still immersed in that solemn sense of tranquility, he turned his head to observe the source of the noise. His hazel eyes fell upon the young otter from the night before as the creature in question peered at him from around his door.

"Uh...morning... How are you...uh, both of you?"

"Fine." He said, his deep voice carrying easily in the empty hallway despite the soft tone in which he spoke. "She 'asn't woken yet." He returned his gaze back to the invisible spot on the wall as he continued, his words coming out in a hollow monotone. "She's goin' t'need some dry clothin'."

[Tirael]

"Fine."

Tirael nodded blankly, dully surprised by the equally flat manner in which Redin seemed to respond. It was as though the weasel was just easing into the day himself, but whatever was the reason behind his placid demeanor, the otter had no objection. It was too early to have to be as defensive as he'd been the night before.

"She 'asn't woken yet." He returned his gaze back to the invisible spot on the wall as he continued, his words coming out in a hollow monotone. "She's goin' t'need some dry clothin'."

"Huh--oh. Right," he said, remembering the bucket of water Sleet had dumped on herself. "I'll go find her something." Skirting around the seated weasel on his way to the stairs, Tirael tried to make order of his disparate thoughts, mentally listing what he needed to do. Get them dry clothes, breakfast, check Sleet, talk to Skipp, talk to Enon...is that it?... He deflated slightly; there wasn't enough to distract himself with, and the last thing he needed was to be left alone with his thoughts, or worse, with Redin.

Stopping by the infirmary to pick up an extra shirt for Sleet, he then headed downstairs to get a breakfast tray for Redin. Draping the dry clothes over his arm, he picked up the tray and trudged back up the stairs and down the hall to Redin. "Here," he said, holding the tray out for him. "I'll check Sleet now."

[Maxodis]

"Here, I'll check Sleet now."

The proffered tray brought Redin back to full awareness with slightly disorienting suddenness. He blinked at it for a moment before the thought registered that it was intended for him, and as a result he was expected to take it, and preferably express gratitude. The weasel's face scrunched into a confused scowl as his thoughts began to grind back in motion. A bit belatedly, he rose from the chair, taking the food tray with some hesitation and awkwardly muttering his thanks. He pushed the chair aside with his footpaw, the wood grating against the sandstone floor in protest.

Spotting the flash of green on the otter's arm as the creature entered the room, a thought suddenly occurred to Redin. Tirael was a healer of some sort and ability, that much was certain. But the otter was also young, and couldn't possibly have seen nor experienced all that much in his short life, not even beginning to mention his experiences in medicine. Sleet, while nowhere near as scarred as himself(She was far less careless than he was), nonetheless did have her own set of distinctly grisly set of scars on her. She was careful to keep them from the eyes of others, particularly those covering her legs. Redin wasn't certain just how much she trusted these creatures in the sandstone building, or this otter in particular if his talk of owing her a debt were true, but something about this youth(Who, it was safe to say, was probably not accustomed to the female body) dressing Sleet while she was unconscious and unable to express her displeasure(Likely with a sharp-edged object applied directly to Redin's arm, if the weasel's guess was right), seemed like a very bad idea. He put his paw on Tirael's shoulder, stopping the otter as he slid by him through the door. "Yew uh... better 'old on fer a second mate," He said, his voice regaining its liveliness. He plucked the tunic from the younger creature's arm, handing him back the breakfast tray. "I'll take care o' this first, aye?"

[Tirael]

Tirael didn't dwell much on Redin's odd reaction to the breakfast; the weasel was clearly out of his element, and his behavior was clearly forced somewhat. So he simply nodded, doing his best to show no interest, and pushed the door open.

"Yew uh... better 'old on fer a second mate."

Glancing at Redin's paw on his shoulder, Tirael then looked at him with a questioning expression. If Sleet wasn't awake, he couldn't figure out what he would have to wait for; Redin probably just didn't trust him. The otter suppressed a weary sigh. While his relationship with Sleet was...well, unusual, it certainly wasn't hostile, and the faster he could prove that, the better. His thoughts then turned to why Redin had been gone so long, but that line of speculation was cut off by real life.

"I'll take care o' this first, aye?"

Finally, it clicked for him. "O-ohh," he stammered. "Er--right, go ahead," and he was left standing in the corridor with a tray of food. Smiling uncomfortably at a pair of mice that passed by, he gazed over the ceiling as he waited for Redin to finish clothing Sleet. It felt rather quiet, though he could faintly hear the sounds of breakfast going on far below in Cavern Hole. Hm. Hope they'll save me some, he thought absently, unsure which of his thoughts to settle on. Notions seemed to be flitting carelessly across his mind, and he felt decidedly more scatterbrained than usual.

"Is everything alright in there?" he said through the door after what seemed like hours. He felt the need to be doing something, anything to force himself to focus.

[Maxodis]

"O-ohh, er--right, go ahead,"

Redin hesitated for a moment as the door closed behind him, briefly considering how abruptly he had risen from the meditative stupor when the otter had arrived with the breakfast tray and Sleet's clothing. It was always a peculiar thing, losing contact with reality like that, letting one's mind drift in an infinite sea of... what, exactly? Probably didn't matter, what was significant was that the tranquil state of mind that practice offered seemed to be the only haven from the insistent tugging of the conscious that guided him.

He shook his head to bring himself back up from his thoughts, grumbling darkly to himself about the inconvenience of all the thinking he had become victim to in the past few months. Its just simpler to be guided than to lead one's own actions, he thought to himself as he held out the green tunic for casual inspection. The tunic was identical to the garments that the weasel had seen some of the other woodlanders wearing in the past and it was certainly....

He had to stifle his laughter from a ferret that was unconscious and an otter who was waiting on the other side of a closed door as he imagined what Sleet would look like wearing the green potato sack. In the years he had known her, Redin couldn't recall a single instance where she had worn anything like it, much less any shade of green this lively. Better that Redin dress her himself: While she was likely to be upset that she had her clothing changed while she was asleep, she was likely to be murderous to have been put in such a thing. There were no pants to go along with the tunic, which was probably best. Her own worn pair hadn't been anywhere near as damp as the rest of her clothing, so it was probably safe to put them back on her.

The weasel quickly learned that putting clothes on another's body was significantly more difficult than taking them off. He'd had his fair share of experience in the latter, which made the difficulty of the former all the more frustrating. Satisfied that the tunic was on correctly(It was slightly big, which was fine, although it added to her comical appearance), he was in the process of tugging her pants over her thighs, a particularly awkward operation as keeping a creature on their bed while attempting it caused the pants to catch on the sheets below them. He'd had to sit on the bed with his legs crossed, leaning well back against the headboard with her body lying against him, propping her up with his knees as he growled under his breath about no creature having any right to wear pants that fit so tightly around the waist.

"Is everything alright in there?"

Redin looked up, almost completed with his task but aware that questions like that were often followed up with sudden opening of doors. It also occurred to him that this was not a scene to be walked-in upon. He cursed blackly, scrambling out from beneath her and rearranging her limp figure, finally tossing the blanket over her to her abdomen, covering the unfinished job of working her pants into a wearable position. She looked fine(Barring the tunic), and the otter had no right looking any lower anyway. It was just her shoulder that was injured, wasn't it?

"Aye," he called, slightly breathless as he trotted to the door. "She's 'bout as decent as she'll get." He opened the door wide, propping it open with his back as he reached out, placing a paw on Tirael's shoulder and urging him inside. As he glanced down the hallway, the arm with the improvised bandage reached down to collect the tray from the otter's paws, and he noticed with a complete lack of surprise that a large dark stain had bloomed in the center of it.

[Treble Tiderunner]

Skipper had been up early that morning, going out for a walk around the ramparts. He had then joined Alecsander for breakfast on the west wall steps. What had started out as a quiet morning meal had expanded when several of the Redwallers had discovered the picnic and joined them. Skipper bid goodbye to the assembly and went inside, where he was waylaid by one of his crew with a message from his son.

~~

Skipper entered the hallway, looking around for Tirael. He spotted him down by the end, and quickened his pace. “Whats up, Tirs?”

[Tirael]

Tirael frowned slightly. There was no response to his question, and he was considering peeking into the room when he heard somebeast.

“Whats up, Tirs?”

Turning to his father, Tirael nodded a greeting. "Morning, Skipp." For a moment, he simply held a thoughtful expression, thinking of how best to explain the situation. "Uhh, let's see...well, Sleet staggered in last night. She'd been poisoned. Anyhow, I treated her, and her friend came up, they let him in, and now he's in there with her--" Again, he paused to figure out the best way to word it. This part was a little awkward. "...putting her...clothes...on." Giving the Skipper a glance that said I'd-rather-not-explain-that-last-bit, he turned to stare at the closed door. "Just thought you should know."

"Aye," Redin called, slightly breathless as he trotted to the door. "She's 'bout as decent as she'll get."

Tirael raised an eyebrow at Redin as he came out of the room. "What took--never mind," he said. Gesturing to the Skipper, he said, "Redin, this is my father, the Skipper." Turning to his father, he said, "Skipp, this is Redin Outmir." He moved away slightly from the paw that clapped onto his shoulder; it felt like Redin was taking possession of him, something the healer was still sensitive to. He noticed the weasel's bandaging, though, and glanced up at him. "I'll have to fix that after I check on Sleet." With that, he entered the room.

The first impression the otter felt was how limp Sleet was. To him, she always seemed to be in action, even at a standstill; if her body wasn't moving, her mind was at least churning at full speed. Now she just looked like a giant, oddly realistic doll. "And good morning to you too," he muttered to her as he sat on the side of the bed. Trying not to look at her face, he examined her wound and bandaging carefully; everything seemed fine, much to his relief. Her fever was dying down, as well, so there wasn't terribly much for him to do at the moment.

"Well, she'll be a bit weak and sore when she wakes up, but I think she'll be fine, otherwise," he said to nobody in particular. "I just have to get her a fresh poultice, but that should be it. Can't predict when she'll wake up, though."

[Maxodis]

After placing his paw on the breakfast tray, Redin had glanced first one way down the hallway, then the other, an action born purely out of compulsive habit. As his eyes fell upon the approaching creature, his brow twitched down with displeasure.

"Redin, this is my father, the Skipper. Skipp, this is Redin Outmir."

All but pushing Tirael into the room, Redin briefly wondered at the significance of the younger otter knowing his last name, having no recollection of giving it the night previous. It was possible that Sleet had given that information, although it was highly unlikely as she was more prone to calling him 'my idiot punching bag' than she was to using even his first name, much less his second. As worrysome as those implications could be, they were not as imperative as the approaching otter.

It wasn't hard to tell that this creature was one well-accustomed to a rougher side of life, ample proof to be seen in the scars covering the creature's stocky frame. It vaguely occurred to Redin that the title Skipper should mean something rather significant. Certainly he had heard it before, but the weasel found it difficult to care to keep up with such minor details. He was probably a leading figure of some sort. As well as the healer's father, he thought, plucking an apple from the tray with his free paw and taking a healthy bite from it with a loud snap, a surprising amount of juice dripping down his chin. It was only a matter of time until he would see someone with authority, Redin thought, wiping his chin with the back of the same paw.

The problem lay in the fact that this particular creature, no stranger to combat, may better know of the significance of Redin's identity better than his son. Or to be more to the point, may understand that the grisly remains of what had been a respectable number of the woodlander's scouts and lookouts had been Redin's work. His hazel eyes watching the creature approach, Redin took another bite from the apple. They'd just have to see.

The weasel hardly heard Tirael behind him, which was fine as he wasn't being directly addressed anyway. He crossed his arms as he leaned against the doorframe, his muscular bulk blocking all entry. He spoke around the apple as he took another bite, the nonchalance in his voice not reflected with the suspicion in his eyes. "Mornin', Guv'nor."

[Treble Tiderunner]

As Tirael passed into the room, Skipper eyed the big weasel who came out. The scars, the muscle, the face chains, all were brought together to form a conclusion and first impression. Much like Redin had concluded of Skipper, Skipper knew that this beast knew well the arts of war.

And if Skipper was right about the other activities he suspected this Redin was guilty of, then he was an enemy. He crossed his arms and stared back flatly at Redin. “Mornin’.” He didn’t answer to the suspicion in Redin’s expression, nor did he act on his own. After all, he knew Sleet was quite the perpetrator of plenty of chaos and violence on her own. One could not expect her ‘friend’ to be any different.

“How is Sleet doing, Tir?” He asked instead, speaking over Redin’s shoulder. “I heard ye two caused quite a stir… without the Brigadier breaking heads, though I hear he did try…”

[Tirael]

“How is Sleet doing, Tir?”

Tirael blinked. Evidently, he had only mumbled his previous explanation, because neither Redin nor the Skipper appeared to have heard it. Turning to look at both, he began to feel uncomfortable with the expressions both were giving each other. Ears laying back in concern, he tried to distract them with yet another description of Sleet's condition. "She's fine. Her fever's gone down, I just need to replace her shoulder dressing. Once she rests she should be perfectly healthy."

Getting up, he squeezed past Redin and back out into the hallway. "I need to get supplies to re-bandage the two of you. I'll, uh--I'll be right back." Somewhat abruptly, he turned and strode down the hallway. Once he'd gone around a corner, he broke into a run, making sure his footsteps were as quiet as he could make them. He didn't want to leave the two together for long; he might come back to find only one of them still standing.

[Maxodis]

Holding the apple delicately between a forefinger and a thumb, Redin took another large bite out of the apple, setting his faintly crimson-dyed teeth into the white flesh of the apple and snapping off the bite with a sharp snap of his wrist. His control slipped several notches, and a lazy smile grew on his features as he chewed, smug defiance lighting his eyes as he returned the otter's flat glare. The weasel saw at least a degree of intelligence in the other's eyes as they had sized him up, taking quick note of his more distinguishing features. One could tell a hundred things about a creature without having even heard them speak a full sentence, and Redin found he had to look no farther than the older otter's posture to determine that the creature certainly had no good first impression.

The weasel suppressed a soft chuckle at what the otter might imagine him guilty of. Vivid images, memories, of those mangled corpses, their gruesome remains only hinting at how brutally the life had been ripped from them. None of his victims deserved such treatment, they never did. But their fate found them regardless. It was always the same, those living who saw the bodies, the aftermath, couldn't even begin to imagine the act itself. It was beyond their understanding, there wouldn't be any connection even if they saw it for themselves. This otter would be no different. The creature likely thought Redin to be dangerous, that was certain. A cutthroat and a bandit, mostlikely. But such concepts were too base, too simple. Too easy.

The weasel froze mid-chew, the sadistic mirthful light in his eyes dying, to be replaced by a flash of shock. The change was hardly noticeable, and he completed the act of swallowing, abstaining from taking another bite as his appetite had spontaneously vanished. He was aware of his near loss of control only as the urge to pass subtle hints along to the otter about his deeds rose up powerfully in his conscious. The allure of inspiring such horror and vengeance lost its seductive appeal when the weasel was cognitively aware of his actions. Without the calm guidance of his subconscious, the idea was repulsive. Redin placed the half-eaten apple back on the tray as Tirael squeezed by him, a slight smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth as if to cover up the abrupt shift his behavior had experienced.

"I need to get supplies to re-bandage the two of you. I'll, uh--I'll be right back."

His eyes fell upon Tirael in silent acknowledgement before they slid languidly back to the Skipper. Holding the other's gaze, he idly rolled around the half-eaten apple on the tray with a claw. "Ye look like y'got somethin' yew'd like t'share, otter. Doan' be a stranger," He chuckled wryly. "We're all friends here, ain't we?"

[Treble Tiderunner]

"She's fine. Her fever's gone down, I just need to replace her shoulder dressing. Once she rests she should be perfectly healthy."

Skipper gave a short nod. He liked Sleet, though she was snippy and off-putting. He stood easily, not rising to the bait of the big weasel. He knew creatures, what made them tick, how they reacted and why. He’d learned much of this over the years, but part of it was instinct.

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of Redin yet.

"I need to get supplies to re-bandage the two of you. I'll, uh--I'll be right back."

Skipper moved slightly to accommodate Tirael as the younger otter slipped out of the room. He brought his gaze back to the weasel, who had regained his sullen, smug look.

"Ye look like y'got somethin' yew'd like t'share, otter. Doan' be a stranger," He chuckled wryly. "We're all friends here, ain't we?"

Skipper shrugged his wide shoulders, his gaze meeting the weasel’s eyes. “Oh I don’t know.” He cocked an eyebrow, “I ‘ave a few theories.”

[Maxodis]

“Oh I don’t know. I ‘ave a few theories.”

Redin's low chuckle deepened as he shook his head lightly in disbelief. "Aw, an' 'ere I was under th' 'mpression tha' yew were gonna give me a welcome t'wotever yew lot call this place now, an' offer me a 'ome 'ere fer as long as I like. I c'n say I'm fairly disappointed, Skipper. Or d'ye prefer Skip?"

With a shrug, he pushed himself off the doorframe, closing the door behind him. "At any rate... Prop'r first 'mpressions are 'portant t'make." He set the tray on the chair beside the door before straightening to his full height, matching the otter's gaze before casually extending a paw. "Redin Outmir, pleasure t'make yer..." His grin grew slightly as he hesitated. "... 'cquaintance."

[Treble Tiderunner]

Redin's low chuckle deepened as he shook his head lightly in disbelief. "Aw, an' 'ere I was under th' 'mpression tha' yew were gonna give me a welcome t'wotever yew lot call this place now, an' offer me a 'ome 'ere fer as long as I like. I c'n say I'm fairly disappointed, Skipper. Or d'ye prefer Skip?"

The solidly built older otter’s eyes were flat, but he smiled slightly with some sort of amusement. “Its not my ‘abit t’invite threats t’live wi’ me an’ mine.” He replied, dark eyes unwavering.

With a shrug, he pushed himself off the doorframe, closing the door behind him. "At any rate... Prop'r first 'mpressions are 'portant t'make." "Redin Outmir, pleasure t'make yer..." His grin grew slightly as he hesitated. "... 'cquaintance."

Skipper took the paw and shook it briefly but firmly. “Skipper o’ Otters.” He nodded curtly and withdrew. He had many things to do today, not one of which included exchanging brooding glares with a hulking weasel.

"An' wot if yer right 'bout me, eh? Tha's th' real question, innit? If'n I turn out t'be a threat, as y'say, wotcha gonna do 'bout it? Answer carefully otter, coz I ain't gonna ferget wot yew say next."

Skipper was halfway down the hall, but he turned to face Redin again. "Wot will I do, Redin Outmir?" He smiled suddenly, but it was not warm and friendly. "What I have to. And it all depends on you." He turned and continued his walk away, whistling an old tune.